Convalescence
by Dala1
Summary: After escaping, Magneto enlists outside help to exact revenge against Xavier and his students. As usual, things don't go as planned ... (fourth part added)
1. One

Disclaimer: Marvel owns all. I own nothing.  
Author's Note: First part of several.   
  
  
The man stood on the edge of a great cliff. Water thundered on his right, a forest teemed with life at his back. He took no notice of either, choosing instead to gaze out at the rising sun. It was pale now, the moon still dominant over the wan amber sky, but it would gather strength and grow hot, allowing this miserable little planet to subsist on its rays for another day.  
  
*We write romantic poetry about the moon, and yet it does nothing for us*, he thought scornfully. *The sun is the master of life, and we resent it for shining too brightly or too dimly. It can be cruel, it can be unyielding, but it is our sustenance. Ancient civilizations worshipping the sun had the right idea.*  
  
He felt a different, harsher light press at the back of his skull. If anyone had been watching, he would have seemed strong and noble despite his age. Now his stance became feeble as he bent over, hands pressed to his head.  
  
"Come back inside, Erik," said a voice from behind. It was feminine, dark and vaguely reptilian. A hand settled on his shoulder, and he allowed himself to be led back to the small stone house.  
  
Glancing back one more time at the advancing light, he sent a silent, warning message to a man not so very far away. *You may be the moon, Charles, soft and admired, but never forget that I am your sun. And the day is about to break, old friend.*  
  
In Westchester, a mere thirty miles away from the stone house in the woods, Charles Xavier woke in a cold sweat.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
There were warning signs, but they went unnoticed.  
  
In March she had to leave class early, complaining of headaches. Jean offered to examine her, but she smiled and said she would be all right with some rest, it was probably just her period. The headaches stayed through April and May, but not too frequently, and she could ease them with aspirin.  
  
June brought more of the same, with some escalation.  
  
"I can't believe we're really graduating!" Jubilee squealed, one eye perfectly made up and the other bare. It eventually came out perfectly, but no one had a stranger beauty routine than Jubilation Lee.  
  
Kitty sniffled. "It feels like just yesterday when I came to the mansion . . ."  
  
Rogue tugged on the tank top she was wearing under her gown. "Don't start again, Kitty, you're gonna set the rest of us off!"  
  
Sure enough, Jubilee's grin had taken a trip south. She reached out one arm to either of her friends. "We'll be going off to college," she said, tears forming in her eyes but not daring to spill over and ruin her handiwork, "and things'll . . . never . . . be the same!" She ended in a howl and Kitty's tears flowed freely. Rogue felt a familiar pricking in her own eyes. She didn't have as much history in this place as the other two, but she would miss it just as much.  
  
"We still have this summer's trip through Europe," she reminded them, her voice thickening.  
  
Jubilee chuckled. "Maybe poor old Remy will finally get some."  
  
Rogue poked her in the arm. "Shut up, you."  
  
The three girls gave each other one last squeeze before separating, each tucking hair back into place and smoothing the dark crimson gowns. Jubilee bent over the mirror to finish her right eye and Kitty continued her thank-you letter to the Professor. It had spilled onto two pages and sported tearstains in more than one corner.  
  
Smiling, Rogue reflected that if she'd been cursed with a mutation at birth, at least she'd been blessed with some terrific friends. Not just Jubes, Kit-Kat and the boys, but the adults of the mansion as well. She could tell pretty much anything to Ororo and Jean, Scott was the big brother she'd always wanted, Hank was great for philosophical and homework help conversations, and the Professor was a father figure to them all.   
  
Her thoughts trailed off the one she knew least, and best. The one she was most distant from, and yet so close to. Rogue sighed. Logan was a walking, talking paradox. Violent and noble, caring and standoffish, cool and warm, safe and dangerous. A rock and the wind that slowly ground it into nothing.  
  
Tears threatened again. She hadn't seen him in over a year, but she couldn't bring herself to bear him a grudge. After all, she knew the demons haunting his past better than anyone else did. And he was always with her, inside her head. Mostly quiet now, but he was a comfort anyway. The real Logan could fit her life in new and vastly more satisfying ways, but that would take time. Right now she was content with occasional phone call or postcard.  
  
Jubilee looked up from where she was lining Kitty's lips and said, "Come on, Roguey, your turn."  
  
Rogue nodded and promptly vomited into her graduation cap.  
  
"What the f --"  
  
"Rogue, are you okay?"  
  
Trembling, she regarded the mess and realized that another headache was sneaking up. And had the room gotten chilly all of a sudden?  
  
She looked up at the mirror, studying her reflection. A tad pale, and maybe her eyes were slightly reddened, but she'd just been crying. And the circles underneath, so slight that no one had noticed them, must be from staying out late last night.  
  
"I'm fine," she decided, just a bit tremulous. She tried again. "I'm fine." The words echoed in the small bathroom.  
  
Kitty and Jubilee were staring. "Hon, you're not . . . you couldn't be . . ."   
  
She saw Jubilee's eyes drift to her waist and snapped, "Of course I'm not pregnant. That's fuckin' ridiculous."  
  
They blinked in response.  
  
Rogue closed her eyes. "You know as well as I do that Remy hasn't gotten any, and neither has anyone else."  
  
"You must be sick then," Kitty said, frowning.  
  
"A stomach bug, probably." Like hell she was going to miss her graduation. She'd worked hard to catch up from those months spent on the road, and she was not about to waste this moment on a 24-hour virus.  
  
Tossing the cap in the trashcan, she went to the sink to wash the awful taste out of her mouth. Jubilee handed her a toothbrush.  
  
"I'll say I lost the cap," she said between scrubs, "and they'll give me a new one."  
  
Kitty twirled hers around on her finger. "Dorky looking things, anyway."  
  
The trash was emptied before they finished, and Rogue got a replacement cap. She forgot all about the incident as she climbed the stage to accept her diploma. She whistled and cheered and clapped for all the students she had grown to love, and also those she hadn't. The X-Men stood around beaming proudly while younger students looked on. Some of them wished for the day they'd be able to go out into the world; others dreaded it, but they were all quiet for those few hours in the bright spring morning.  
  
After the ceremony, Rogue, Jubilee, Kitty, Bobby, Remy, and St. John gathered themselves into a proud grinning knot while Scott fiddled with the camera. Rogue felt her face ache, stretched into what seemed an unnatural expression for so long. She wanted most to grimace at the pangs in her head.  
  
Finally Scott yelled, "Say cheese!" The giggling died, the smiles froze in place, and as the shutter clicked Rogue passed out.   
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Voices. Voices turning the dark puddles in her head into interesting shapes, twisting and distorting them. It reminded her of a Disney movie she'd loved as a child, what was it called? "Fantasia," yes, that was it. The little line that stood in the middle of the screen and moved when someone plucked a harp or blew on a horn. It had been cute then, but now it had taken up residence in her head and it annoyed her.   
  
She tried to open her eyes, but they weren't cooperating. Felt like someone was sitting on them. The voices belonged to Jean and Hank, so maybe they were sitting on her eyelids? She tried to ask them to get off, but her mouth wasn't working either.  
  
"Dammit, Hank, I've never seen a case like this."  
  
"Nor have I. We know it's not the flu."  
  
"No, we ruled that out. It just struck so fast . . . she had that migraine a few months ago, but that didn't seem serious."  
  
"She's probably been having them ever since and not telling anybody. You don't think this could be a brain tumor, do you?"  
  
"God, I hope not. We need to run some more tests."  
  
If the voices would just *stop* . . .  
  
And they did. She felt a sting in her arm, then a wonderful coolness ran up her veins to her head. Much better, even if Jean and Hank were still sitting on her eyelids. The woman's voice made one more twang on the strings before Rogue lost consciousness.  
  
"I'm going to call Logan."  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
"Closing up now, fella. You're gonna have to get home now."  
  
The one piss-drunk man left at the bar grumbled into his beer, but stood up reluctantly. No one wanted to disobey *this* bartender.  
  
Logan stuck the dirty glass in the sink. "Want me to call you a cab?" He made a face as the patron's breath drifted into his sensitive nose.  
  
"Nuh. I'll be . . . finnn." And he fell off his barstool.  
  
Sighing, Logan reached for the phone. Job was easy and it paid well enough, but putting up with shit like this made him want to pack up and go . . . back. Home? He guessed it was the closest he'd ever come to home. Mostly because of a pretty girl with a soft voice and dangerous skin. Marie was the reason he would be going back to Westchester, and she was also the reason he was staying again. She wasn't ready yet; hell, she was only eighteen. He could wait.  
  
The phone rang before he could a number.  
  
"'Lo."  
  
"Logan?"  
  
"Hey, Jeannie, what's up?"  
  
She paused, and he felt his skin grow tight. He gripped the beer glass until his knuckles whitened. His claws slid out of the pale flesh.  
  
"It's Rogue --"  
  
"What about Rogue? Is she hurt? What happened?" His voice thundered into Jean's ear, making her wince at the tone and the panic causing it.  
  
"She's sick, Logan, very sick, and I think --"  
  
"I'm coming home."  
  
The phone swung from his fingers and hit the wall. Jean heard the shattering of glass, the slam of a door, and someone mumbling drunkenly. She hung up and returned to her patient.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
*The light. Turn the light off, Momma, I'm tryin' to sleep.*  
  
"Mmmphmm."  
  
"She's waking up." The light came closer. "Rogue? Can you hear me?"  
  
She opened one eye and shut it immediately. "Light," she whispered, sounding on the verge of tears.   
  
"Of course," Hank said. "Sorry." The room faded into a more tolerable half-light, and she opened both eyes.  
  
Both doctors leaned over her. Jean stroked her cheek with a gloved hand. "How are you feeling?"   
  
"Ungh." She tried to lift her head, but it seemed to be weighed down. Hospital gown. God, how she hated wearing those things. She'd had her tonsils taken out at twelve and the worst part had been the hospital gowns. If there was going to be a nice convenient medical lab in the basement, at least they could give her something decent to wear.  
  
She managed to lift an arm, staring at the bruises on her flesh. "What happened?"  
  
"Those happened while you were being carried down here. Among other things, your illness interferes with your red blood cells and causes you to bruise very easily." Hank could always be counted on for a soothing voice, no matter what the message. She grabbed his thumb frantically.  
  
"What's making me sick?"  
  
They exchanged looks. That was never, ever good. "We don't exactly know," Jean explained. "It's some kind of virus, but not one either of us has seen. You're showing symptoms for many different diseases, but according to the tests, you don't have a single one of them. According to the tests, there's no reason you shouldn't be perfectly healthy."  
  
Rogue stared at the ceiling above their heads. Mystery virus. Great. It gave her headaches and bruised her and made her throw up. Feeling a familiar, awful sensation rise in her throat, she choked out, "I'm gonna be sick." Hank held up a bucket and she emptied the nothing coating her stomach into it. How could she throw up when there was nothing in there?  
  
Jean wiped her mouth without saying a word.  
  
She realized for the first time how dry her lips were. And how hot it was. She was burning, oh god, she was on fire, she could see the flames licking at her feet --  
  
"Rogue! Calm down! There's no fire!" She understood vaguely that the high-pitched screams were her own, and the hands holding her down were Jean's, and the hands injecting a sedative were blue and therefore Hank's.  
  
Erik had been tortured by fire.  
  
"Charles," she whispered, her struggles subsiding. Her head turned to one side, and a single tear escaped from the corner of her eye.  
  
"The professor. You want to see him?"  
  
She shook her head mutely. No, she wasn't Magneto, she was Rogue. She was *Marie*.  
  
The heat within her turned to ice, sweat cooling on her body, making her shiver.  
  
"Logan. I want Logan." Her voice was wheedling, pleading.  
  
"He's on his way," Jean replied gently.  
  
She wanted to cry, but she was afraid her tears would turn into icicles on her cheeks. *Hey Bobby*, she thought tiredly as she drifted off again, *is this what your life is like?*  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Logan's mind was blank for the first hour of the madcap ride. Then he allowed himself to think about the situation. Sick. If Jean had called him, it must be really bad. All this time living in that dangerous place, with fucking superheroes for company, he'd figured she might get injured. But she was sick.  
  
Trying hard not to picture a pale and feverish Marie calling for him, he gunned the bike's engine in the pitch-black night. He would heal her. He would heal her as soon as he got there, didn't care what kind of coma it threw him into.   
  
He just had to *get* there.  
  
  



	2. Two

(disclaimer in first part)  
  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Jean finished spraying the disinfectant over her clothes. The shaking of her hands made the job difficult. Rogue went from a 104-degree temperature to 94. She begged for water, then threw it up. They bundled blankets on her during a chill, only to have her toss them off, sweat-soaked, fifteen minutes later. She dozed for awhile and woke up from nightmares. Sometimes they left her delusional, and it took Jean and Hank both to hold her still so she wouldn't harm herself. They feared they'd have to strap her down if that got any worse. Her migraines were so bad she pleaded for all the lights to be turned off and lay curled on her side, eyes shut tight, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. Recently she'd developed a terrible, hacking cough that sometimes brought up blood.  
  
It was exhausting work for the two doctors, not to mention painful. And nothing seemed to help; that was the worst part of all. They'd tried five different kinds of medication without results and then stopped, fearing it would only worsen the situation. Xavier had taken Hank out a few hour ago to consult with hospitals and medical experts in conference calls. He faxed blood samples, tissue samples, and test results to clinics all over the world. No one had any clue how to help this girl. Jean would have participated, but she knew how distant scientists would treat it: a fascinating medical anomaly. A *case*. It was not a case to Jean, it was Rogue, a dear friend in severe pain, whom she couldn't help in the least.   
  
She stood trembling for a few moments in the little bathroom. Dully she noted that the sun should be rising about now. She and Hank had worked through the night, and he'd ordered her off to get some sleep. Scott was waiting for her outside, as were Ororo, Professor Xavier and some of Rogue's teenage friends. No one was allowed into the med room for fear of spreading the infection. Christ, what would she do if this became an epidemic? No, it was best to keep Rogue quarantined. Jean herself should be safe enough, having showered and gotten into fresh clothes, then disinfected those just to be sure.  
  
Taking a deep breath, she opened the door. Scott was indeed standing just to the left. He handed her a sandwich and slipped an arm about her waist. The tender gesture, so very Scott-like, made her want to burst into tears. Ororo held out a cup of coffee.  
  
"Does it have a shot of whiskey in it?" she murmured, drawing slightly hysteric laughter from the small congregation. The boys had left, but Jubilee and Kitty were huddled on a bench. They stood up quickly.  
  
"Is . . . is she doing any better, Dr. Grey?" Kitty asked, hope filling her eyes.  
  
Jean bit her lip, which was answer enough. Then she remembered their little field trip. It would be leaving at noon. "Shouldn't you be packing?"  
  
Jubilee blinked. "Are you sure we oughta go, with Rogue here and . . ." They looked to the professor for an answer, and he nodded.  
  
"There's nothing you can do for her right now," Xavier said gently. "She's still too ill to see anyone. Go on, enjoy yourselves, and we'll contact you if there are any changes."  
  
The man was peace itself, Jean thought, not for the first time in all the years she'd known and loved him.  
  
Bobby appeared to take each of them by the elbow. He looked at Jean, worry in his eyes. He hadn't slept either. "Tell her we love her, all right?"  
  
Jean attempted to smile. The three young people moved on to catch a few hours of sleep.  
  
Before Scott led her off to do the same, one more concerned mutant showed up. The breath caught in Jean's throat. It was the young German boy, Kurt Wagner, who called himself Nightcrawler. He bore a strong enough resemblance to Mystique to be unsettling; she knew Ororo and Scott felt it too.   
  
He clasped his furred hands together and said softly, "Please, is Rogue doing badly?" His English was very good, and his accent didn't impair her understanding at all.  
  
Xavier answered. "She's quite sick, Kurt, but we'll let her know you stopped by."  
  
If a blush could be visible under such a complexion, Kurt had one. "No, she probably does not remember who I am. It is only . . . she was kind to me, once, and I wanted to see how she is."  
  
"I'll tell her," Jean said, again trying to smile.   
  
He nodded, looked at each of them in turn, and teleported out of sight.   
  
Ororo blinked in surprise. "I didn't know he could do that."  
  
"He's an interesting boy," Xavier said.  
  
Feeling Scott's arm tighten around her, Jean realized that she was falling asleep on her feet. "Let's get you to bed," he said into her ear.  
  
"Just for a few hours," she protested. "Hank has to get some sleep too."  
  
"Sure," he said, intending to ignore her completely on that topic. She wouldn't remember the trip up to their room, or how she got changed into a soft cotton nightgown. She would only remember her fiancé's arms locked around her and his hands stroking her hair as she fell into a dark, dreamless sleep.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Driving fast, a motorist could usually make it from the small Canadian town of Petersville to Westchester, NY in two days.   
  
It took Logan fourteen hours.   
  
He punched his code into the gate and roared up to the mansion, leaving the bike in the garage. After a year away, he wasn't too sure of the layout, but he could catch her scent as easily as if her path had been marked.   
  
The students had only just begun to stir. Bolting past a few sleepy teenagers on their way to breakfast, he tracked the Marie-scent to an elevator.  
  
Jean was on it when he stepped inside, looking fatigued. "Logan," she said without emotion. "I was just on my way down."  
  
He nodded tightly, wondering if the attraction between them was still there after all this time apart. She was beautiful like he remembered, yes, and maybe if things were different he'd give a second thought to being alone with Jean Grey in an elevator. As it was, the Marie-scent was taking all his attention, as it grew closer and he grew more worried. There was a violently wrong edge to it, something which made his hackles raise.   
  
They reached the lower levels, exiting in the little antechamber where the uniforms were kept. The medical bay was down the hall and to the right -- the doors all looked the same, but he did remember that. And now he could hear noises. A stranger's voice, raised but not in anger, and Rogue's cry. Logan felt a desperate rage boil up in his blood. He pounded on the steel door. "Open the fucking door!"  
  
"Logan, move," Jean ordered, seeing that he was about to slice out a new doorway. She pressed her palm to a pad on the doorjamb and he shoved past her.  
  
Rogue was tossing on the bed, snared by some intense dream. Hank was keeping her from falling off and attempting to soothe her, but Logan didn't realize this. All he saw was a strange blue behemoth with his hands on Marie, while she shouted in invisible but obvious pain.  
  
Jean felt his emotions change and spoke directly into her co-worker's mind. Hank I'm sorry but get the hell out of his way!  
  
Dr. McCoy immediately backed up, catching a glancing blow on his forearm. Fortunately Logan considered the threat passed, and he was now bent over the girl. He pulled off his leather gloves and reached out a hand to her face. But before he could touch her skin, she let out a shriek of fury and hurled herself upright, hands tightened into fists and jammed against his chest as her eyes snapped open.  
  
For a breathless moment he looked into those horrified depths, and then he understood. The dream she'd been suffering was his own, and in her state she really believed she'd driven two sets of claws into the man she loved.   
  
Rogue looked down at her hands, seeing the absence of metal. Logan had not collapsed, he wasn't gasping his dying breath, and there was none of his blood flowing over her hands. The only thing she felt was the beating of his heart against her right fist. She spread her fingers flat against it, reassuring herself.  
  
To her surprise, his eyes were wet with tears. "You got better aim than me, darlin'," he whispered. She felt a laugh rise in her throat, but by the time it came out it had turned into a sob. Collapsing into Logan's arms, she pressed as tight against him as her weakness would allow.  
  
He found her hand and held it, pressing his lips to her forehead in a healing kiss.   
  
Only this time the connection didn't open. He cupped her face in both bare hands, while she gazed up at him in confusion, and still nothing happened.  
  
"Dammit," he muttered, making Rogue's face fall. Quickly he pulled her close again. "Shhh, shhh, I'm sorry, Marie." When she had fallen back asleep, he lowered her carefully. Turning to face the doctors with one hand covering both of hers, he said with narrowed eyes, "Why isn't it working?"  
  
Jean came over and shook her head. "I don't know. Hank?"  
  
He hesitated, and Jean didn't blame him. Logan caught in full protective mode was not a pleasant thing.   
  
The shorter man glanced up. "Hey," he began haltingly, looking embarrassed, "sorry about that."  
  
"Quite alright," Hank replied easily. "I'm Henry McCoy." He held out a hand, and Logan shook it.  
  
"Logan. You got any medical expertise to share with me?"  
  
Hank adjusted his ridiculously small glasses. "I can't be certain, but my guess is that Rogue's entire being is concentrating on fighting the disease, including the mutant cells. Therefore the manifestation of her mutation is being impaired."  
  
Logan blinked. "So basically it's turned her skin off?"  
  
The doctor beamed. "Precisely."  
  
Jean peered down at Rogue. "Can we prove that?"  
  
"Only by trial and error."  
  
The woman nodded. "May I?" she said to Logan with a raised eyebrow. Reluctantly he stepped aside, and even more reluctantly let go of Rogue's hand. Jean took his place, removing her latex gloves and resuming his position. Rogue didn't respond, and her mutation didn't kick in.   
  
Jean stepped back, letting a relieved Logan back to Rogue's side. "Looks like you're right, Hank. And I'd like to try something else, while we're on this breakthrough. I want to expose some healthy blood cells -- mine or yours will do -- to Rogue's infected ones."  
  
Hank frowned. "You suspect it will not affect them." It wasn't a question.  
  
"We haven't gotten sick yet, despite being in here for more than twenty-four hours," she reasoned.  
  
"True." He gazed down at the girl and her attendant. Logan had found a chair and pulled it to her bedside, laying his head beside hers on the pillow, his hand folded over her smaller ones. From the looks of him, he intended to stay there.  
  
"Perhaps it can wait," he murmured, and Jean nodded in agreement. There'd been so few moments of peace in the past day, it would be a shame to ruin this one. And Rogue's breathing was far less labored than it had been earlier; her face wasn't twisted in discomfort anymore.  
  
As they quietly left the room, Jean thought that maybe Logan would be able to heal her anyway.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
He was pacing, pacing. Got to keep moving. Can't be still, not even for a moment, or *they* would come after him. He wasn't exactly sure who *they* were, but it didn't matter. *They* would always be there, watching, waiting, wishing to catch him off-guard and claim the prize. But he was too smart for *them*, yes, always had been.  
  
Mystique watched her master walk rapidly from one wall to the other, her face devoid of expression. That didn't mean she felt nothing, seeing his mind deteriorate and being unable to stop it.  
  
Their visitor waited and watched as well, floating cross-legged, dirty skirts dragging on the ground. Mystique glanced over at her, barely managing to control her disgust. Frankly, this operation was beneath them. But what Magneto wanted, he got.  
  
Finally she saw a lucid mood take over, and he returned to his chair, seating himself as neat and dignified as though he hadn't been muttering like a madman a second ago.  
  
"Our operation is proceeding as foreseen?" His voice had all the educated caliber that its master once possessed, but Mystique hadn't grown used to his new habit of speaking in the royal 'we'.  
  
"Yes," said the floating woman. Gray, matted hair hung like a fungus from her scalp. "The girl is deathly ill."  
  
"Good." He really did look like a mad scientist, rubbing his hands together with a silly, child-like grin on his face.   
  
*Oh, Erik*, Mystique thought in despair, *look at what you've become.*  
  
Out loud, she asked, "Will you kill her?"  
  
The woman shrugged. "That is not my decision."  
  
Magneto cocked his head. "Kill who?"  
  
Mystique sighed. The Brotherhood had once been a proud, effective terrorist organization. Now they'd been reduced to exacting petty revenge on a half-grown slip of a girl and an old crippled man.   
  
She almost wished the plastic prison had never been breached.  



	3. Three

(disclaimer in first part)  
  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Rogue woke to the feeling of someone's skin touch her own. She started and jerked her hands away.  
  
Logan awoke as well. He'd fallen asleep in the chair, slumped over with his head on her pillow.  
  
"It's all right," he said softly, stroking her cheek with one finger. "It's safe."  
  
Big eyes blinked up at him. "How?"   
  
"Damned if I know. How are you feeling?"  
  
She smiled and clasped his hand. "Like roses." Logan grinned. That smile was contagious, far more so than any disease.  
  
But she wasn't feeling any better -- he felt her hand tighten on his as she bent her head to the side and coughed. God, it sounded like she was bringing up a lung; didn't they have anything to help with that?  
  
The coughs subsided and she saw his look. "Nothing helps," she explained with another smile, sad this time.   
  
Feeling as though his heart had been run through with his own claws, he bent to kiss her lightly. Rogue raised a hand to his head, holding him down and responding hungrily. She hadn't been kissed since David, and Logan was much better -- tasted better, moved his mouth better, felt better. Felt *right*.   
  
He pulled away from her, out of breath and embarrassed that he could be so strongly attracted to her when she was this sick. Of course, he'd never been able to touch her before.  
  
Rogue pouted, her fingers clutching his again.  
  
Logan shook his head. "Look at you," he murmured, brushing a hand against the flush in her cheeks. It was far better than the deathly white she'd been a moment ago.  
  
"Look at *you*," she retorted.  
  
The door opened and Scott, Ororo, and Jean walked in. Rogue's face lit up. "Hey!" she croaked. Logan growled softly at the intrusion, but grudgingly moved aside to let them greet her.  
  
"Logan," Scott acknowledged with a nod. Ororo gave him a quick hug and bent over the sick bed.  
  
Rogue closed her eyes and inhaled their separate scents. Scott smelled clean, with a hint of a musky cologne; undeniably male. Ororo was purely feminine, with something like the wind before a rainstorm. Rogue still missed the enhanced senses from her days absorbing Logan, so she always took special notice of things like scent. These were familiar, and she'd missed them dearly.  
  
"Everyone keeps asking about you," Ororo said, giving her hand a squeeze and trying not to flinch at the heat of her skin.  
  
"Yeah? Jubes and Kitty and the rest left already, right? I hope they did; I didn't want 'em to stay behind for my sake."  
  
Scott nodded. "I drove them to the airport a few hours ago. Jubilee promised to take a ton of pictures and Kitty said she'd write on the plane."  
  
Rogue rolled her eyes. "I'll probably get a letter every two hours."  
  
Jean returned from where she'd been fiddling with equipment. "Happy to be out of quarantine?"  
  
"*Christ*, yes," Rogue replied. "But how come I'm safe all of a sudden?" Certainly she knew she wasn't getting any better.  
  
"We ran some more tests, and decided that the virus isn't contagious," the doctor replied, a bright tone in her voice. Too bright. Scott narrowed his eyes at her, and she shook her head and glanced at Rogue meaningfully. Whatever it was, she didn't want to discuss it in here.  
  
Rogue either didn't notice or chose to ignore the silent exchange. "That's a relief," she said. "I didn't want to get anybody sick."   
  
Observing her with a practiced eye, Jean noted that the little visit had tired her patient, and that was something they could do without.  
  
"All right," she said, shooing the others, "everybody out so Rogue can rest."  
  
"We'll be back tonight," Scott assured her before exiting. Ororo followed him, but Logan sprawled back in his chair and dared Jean to say anything.  
  
She sighed. "I ought to throw you out too."  
  
He snorted at the idea that she was capable of doing such a thing, much less the idea that she would.  
  
Rogue opened her eyes from a thirty-second doze and cried out, "Logan?"  
  
In an instant he was by her side, smoothing her hair back and kissing her face gently. "I'm not goin' anywhere, baby. Back to sleep."  
  
She looked up at him fearfully. "Promise you'll stay?" The pleading in her voice brought tears to Jean's eyes, as did the tenderness and utter sincerity in Logan's.  
  
"I promise, Marie. I'm never going to leave you again, okay?" Appeased, she closed her eyes again, clutching his arm against her chest as a child might clutch a beloved toy.  
  
He waited till she was fully asleep. Without turning, he said in a low, pained voice, "Just tell me she'll be all right, Jeannie."  
  
In a truth she was forced to confront, Jean couldn't say yes and mean it. But he didn't need her to mean it, he just needed her to say it; she understood that.   
  
"She'll be all right," she whispered, touching his shoulder before leaving. For all she knew, she was feeding false hopes, but false hope was better than no hope at all, wasn't it?  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
They were gathered in Xavier's study when Jean got there. She took a seat on the couch, tucking her legs underneath her. This sort of tiredness had to be what made drivers fall asleep at the wheel: debilitating, unavoidable.  
  
Scott handed her a cup of tea and she breathed in the warm aroma before sipping at it.  
  
"I understand you have some news about Rogue," the professor said.  
  
Jean glanced over at Hank, reclining in an armchair with the New York Times. "You didn't tell them yet?"   
  
He shook his head. "It was your hunch."  
  
She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and began. "One thing that surprised me about this disease was its non-communicable tendencies. Vicious as it seems, I figured it would've affected Hank and me at some point. But we're both perfectly fine, and when I tried to infect some healthy cells with samples I took from Rogue, nothing happened. It isn't contagious."  
  
There was a pause. She watched Xavier's face and knew he was arriving at the same conclusion she had.  
  
Ororo said it first. "Someone is making Rogue sick."  
  
Hank nodded. "And not through scientific means."  
  
"So we have two questions to answer," Jean concluded. "Who's behind the illness, and how they're doing it."  
  
Xavier nodded slowly. He never ceased to be pleased when his students followed a train of thought in unison -- they were adults now, of course, but he would always think of them as his first and best students.  
  
Rogue was counted among them, finding a special place in his heart when he'd opened his mind to her pain and fear at her arrival. Logan was, too.  
  
"I have news as well," he said, reluctant to ruin the excitement of even that little breakthrough. But it had to be said, and the sooner the better. "Magneto has escaped."  
  
A gasp went through the room. "How?" Scott demanded. Always hot to act, Xavier thought, but smart enough to think at the same time. It's what makes him their leader.  
  
He sighed deeply, feeling very tired. "I don't know. The government has decided not to trust me; they even implied that I might have something to do with it. He's been gone for three months, but I was informed only two days ago. And no, I can't find him with Cerebro."   
  
"Damn," Jean whispered, neatly summing up all their thoughts in one short word.   
  
"Where are the other three?" Hank asked, his newspaper put aside.  
  
"As of Saturday, Sabretooth was in Alberta, Toad in London, and Mystique in the Catskills."  
  
Scott frowned. "That's too close for comfort."  
  
"She hasn't done anything in the past year," Xavier reminded him. He fell silent, but still looked unhappy about it. It made Xavier himself nervous, but as long as she wasn't causing trouble, he didn't want to start any.  
  
"The important thing to worry about is whether or not Magneto's contacted any of his lackeys," Jean pointed out. "And the only way to find that out is to confront them."  
  
"But suppose they aren't aware of his escape?" Hank argued. "I certainly wouldn't want to be the informant."   
  
"Hmm. Good point." She rubbed a hand across her eyes. "Do we have to decide anything tonight?"  
  
"No, we don't," Xavier said. "You should get a hot meal and some sleep. I take it Logan is staying with Rogue?"  
  
She chuckled. "I can't convince him to leave. I'll know if anything happens during the night."  
  
He nodded, and the impromptu meeting was adjourned.   
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
She was at a party. Somebody's basement, dark and smoky. Teenagers were gathered in pairs, making out in couches and against walls. David waved to her when he came up for breath. The girl he was with looked like Jean. She waved in response and continued wandering through the room. She supposed she was looking for Logan, but it didn't seem to matter much.  
  
Suddenly something began to bang on the ceiling. It filled Rogue with dread, but the others seemed to take no notice. She tugged frantically on sleeves, trying to get them out through a door that had appeared in the wall. It was getting smaller and smaller, and soon no one would be able to fit through it. Eventually the other partyers got up and filed slowly through the shrinking door. The last one crawled on his hands and knees.  
  
Glancing back over her shoulder, hearing the noise grow louder, Rogue dropped down and tried to make it to safety, but her shoulders wouldn't fit. Sobbing, she twisted and squirmed and finally managed to squeeze through. But the doorway had plans of its own; it grabbed her arms and began to shake her. Somewhere the pounding stopped and she could hear her name being called in a thousand voices. Panicked, she screamed until she realized the thousand voices had morphed into a single very dear, very worried voice.  
  
Rogue opened her eyes. Logan was holding her by the shoulders, saying her name over and over.   
  
"Marie!" He grabbed her in a tight hug. "Jesus, kid you sounded like someone was trying to kill you."  
  
She snuggled close to him and said in a small voice, "I'm okay now." Then she threw up on his shirt.  
  
Logan felt her retch and rubbed her back until she was done. No time to grab the bucket. She whimpered and tried to apologize.   
  
"Hush," he ordered, pushing her gently back onto the bed, "nothing to worry about." He poured a glass of water and picked up the bucket, offering them both. She rinsed and spat, making a face.   
  
When she'd finished, he took the bucket to the little bathroom and cleaned it out. She had fallen back against the pillows when he returned. He just couldn't get over how *tired* she looked. A little thing like throwing up had left her shaking.  
  
Rogue said, "I'm sorry," pointing to his shirt. Logan looked down at the stain he hadn't noticed.  
  
He shrugged and stripped it off. "Got plenty of shirts." He tweaked her nose. "Only got one of you."  
  
She giggled, which had been the desired response. He settled back onto the chair, but she shook her hand and gestured.  
  
"Lie down with me, please."  
  
"I don't know if we'll both fit, Marie." She only gazed at him with that implacable Marie-look until he sighed and gingerly picked her up. He could feel the weight she'd already lost, and didn't like it. Settling them both down on the bed was a hard task; she ended up stretched across him.  
  
"You sure this is comfortable?" he asked anxiously. Rogue nodded, running a hand over his bare chest. Skin. His skin was warm. She pressed her cheek to his heart, listening to the rhythmic beat and feeling rather content. Her head still ached, but her fever wasn't too high and the coughing had left her for the time being. She was in better condition than she'd been in for two days.   
  
*Did Logan do that?* she wondered silently. *Does this bond between us have that much power?*  
  
Logan, meanwhile, was trying to ignore his body's responses to her closeness. She was an invalid, dammit, and he'd never take advantage of her.  
  
Rogue had other ideas, apparently. When her roving hand moved lower down to caress his stomach, he grabbed it. "Just what do you think you're doing?" he demanded. Fuck it all if he didn't smell a thread of arousal underneath the sickness.  
  
He could feel her sigh. "It's not like we'll ever have this opportunity again, with my powers all broken." She raised up a little and slipped one leg over his, straddling him. "Don't you want me?" she breathed against his neck.  
  
"I want you *healthy*," he replied. "I'd probably hurt you when you're sick like this, and it might make you worse."  
  
Wiggling a little, she tried to entice him, but the effort set her coughing again.  
  
"See what I mean?" he scolded gently, pulling her back down into a comfortable position.  
  
"Yeah, I guess," she grumbled. "I just -- I figured you're actually able to touch me, why not take advantage of the situation?"  
  
He'd been having the same thought, but she wasn't ever going to know that, and he certainly wasn't going to act on it. "I'll touch you when you're better, baby, I promise."  
  
"With *clothes* on."  
  
"Hey, I'm pretty damned creative here. And at least it won't kill you -- make you unable to walk, maybe," he whispered huskily into her ear, drawing a chuckle.  
  
They were silent for a long time, and he thought she'd fallen asleep. But she spoke again.  
  
"Do you think I'm gonna die, Logan?"  
  
"Of course not!" His arms tightened around her. "You think I'd let that happen? Especially with two good doctors around. *Die*." He snorted sardonically, kissing the top of her head. "You've gotta be shitting me, kid."  
  
He could still feel a tenseness in her limbs. "But they don't know what's wrong with me."  
  
"Jeannie and Hank'll figure it out," he assured her . . . and himself.  
  
"You think so?"  
  
"I *know* so."  
  
Another pause before she picked up again.  
  
"Hey Logan."  
  
"Hey Marie."  
  
"I love you."  
  
"I know that. And you know I love you, right?"  
  
"Yeah, I know."  
  
"Good. Then go to sleep."  
  
Satisfied for now, she let out a deep breath and drifted off. As he listened to her slightly irregular breathing, Logan sent out a prayer for the first time he could remember, and granted, that wasn't too long. He doubted anybody was listening, but it couldn't hurt.  
  
*Please don't make a liar outta me now.*  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
In the days that followed, he left her side only rarely. When he slept, it was hunched over in the chair, though Jean tried to persuade him to go upstairs to a real bed. She brought him meals. He took a shower when she teased him about the flies circling around, and that was the extent of his time away from Rogue.  
  
At first they watched as Logan's presence seemed to make her brighter, more alert. She was even able to keep food down: simple broth and a few crackers, but it was progress and it improved the mood of the whole mansion.  
  
She got better, and then she got worse. Her fevers shot higher and took longer to come down. The coughing left her unable to talk because of the pain in her throat. Her hair started to fall out -- not in big chunks, but enough that it disturbed Jean greatly. Hallucinations began to threaten when she was awake, and sleep was not peaceful even when she could surrender to it. Once she didn't recognize Logan for a full hour, screaming at him in terror until Jean quietly told him it was best to leave the room. There was a little redecorating in the mansion that day. Xavier had the damage repaired or replaced without mentioning it.  
  
Finally she slipped into a coma. IV tubes were hooked up to her as they couldn't be when she was awake, since she would have gone into a rage and torn them out. The two doctors collected material on comatose patients and tried every stimulation exercise from every respected or crack program they could find. Bright lights shone on her eyelids, loud clapping next to her ears, ammonia and vinegar wafted under her nose, Tabasco sauce on her tongue, feathers brushed along her skin, Swedish massage for her muscles. When none of it did any good, they began to invent methods. Ororo brought roses from her treasured garden to see if they might have a smelling-salt reaction. Scott brought down her entire CD collection and half of his own (he concentrated especially on Tom Petty, because he'd heard that "Free Fallin'" had brought several people out of comas). Kurt wandered shyly down and sang her a German lullaby, earning Logan's eternal respect, even if he did bring unpleasant memories to life.  
  
Nothing worked. The noise that had occupied the med bay turned into a deadly quiet. Logan sat by her bed day and night, holding her hand and trying to talk her back to consciousness. Jean figured that of them all, she'd most likely listen to him. When someone visited, he fell silent and pretended they didn't exist. Unnerving as this was, eventually they got used to it and would say whatever they came to say, forgetting his presence entirely.  
  
Jean didn't like his appearance. He ate now only if she sat down and glared at him until he picked up a fork. He slept when she begged him to, but only for a few hours. In short, Hank had one patient and Jean had two.  
  
The two men didn't come into contact much. Logan spoke very rarely to Jean, once or twice to Ororo, and never to Hank or Scott. He'd pointedly ignored the professor, whether the talk was oral or directed into his mind.  
  
So Hank was surprised one day when he was cleaning up and Logan spoke to him.  
  
"She's not going to die."  
  
Hank looked over. The other man was staring at him, face blank. He didn't have anything to say in return.  
  
"She's not going to die," Logan repeated, slowly, as if speaking to a young and stupid child.  
  
"No, of course not," Hank said.  
  
Logan nodded, as if something had been settled, and went back to his silent vigil. Hank stood and regarded him for a moment, thinking. Other doctors had come and gone with no prognosis. They still had not located Magneto, so they had no way of knowing if he was behind this. His three associates had all moved at different times.   
  
Hank wouldn't tell the man who loved Rogue so much the truth, though perhaps he wouldn't believe it anyway. If they didn't find something out, and soon, she would indeed die.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Logan didn't know what time of day it was. He didn't even know what day of the week it should be. He'd lost track of all that very quickly, in an underground chamber without windows, without a clock. Maybe time was standing still; how could he be sure?  
  
The only thing he knew was the rise and fall of Rogue's chest as she slept. Slept so deeply that nothing could wake her. Slept so deeply that he couldn't take his eyes off her, for fear that her sleep would turn into one from which she was incapable of waking.  
  
Ororo came down to visit and he asked her what day it was.  
  
"Thursday," she replied. "The twelfth of July."  
  
A month. It had been nearly a month.  
  
The thought occurred to her at the same time. "Logan," she asked in her quiet way, "you haven't been outside once since you got here?" He shook his head, and she was astounded. How could he live without seeing the sun? Without feeling the breeze on his face, without walking on something besides smooth tile? She could never live so long without the outdoors.  
  
Tentatively she put her hand on his shoulder. "Come on. You really need to get out."  
  
"No," he replied hollowly. "I have to be here when she wakes up."  
  
When. When. When. Ororo repeated that word silently for a moment. Sometimes she had trouble turning it away from 'if'.  
  
She tugged on his sleeve. "Walk around the grounds with me, Logan. Only for a few moments. Jean is on her way down, she will stay with Rogue."  
  
A muscle twitched in his jaw. "I can't." But it was a weak protest, and after a bit more prodding he followed her out the door, glancing back anxiously at Rogue and Jean. The doctor had promise she would inform him telepathically if there was any change.  
  
When they stepped through the doors into the courtyard, he had to shield his eyes. The sun was bright, so much more pervasive than fluorescent lighting that it permeated his eyelids even when they were shut tight.  
  
Gradually his eyesight adjusted, and he saw Ororo staring at him with just the hint of a smile on her face. She began to walk along the stone pathway and he followed, gazing around at the perfectly manicured lawns as if seeing them for the first time. Marie would like the heat of the day because it would remind her of home. Maybe he should bring her out here?  
  
They meandered along to the lake, where she dropped down to the grass. It was late afternoon, when the sun begins to take on a reddish color in preparation for setting.  
  
Then the weather witch and the Wolverine stared out at the water. They said nothing. They didn't have to.  
  
It was a mere ten minutes, but when he returned to Rogue's side, Logan felt cleansed and understood and reassured.   
  
He took her still hand. "Hey, baby," he said softly. "I thought about you today."  
  
  
  
Author's Note: I'm giving fair warning, the next part may be awhile in coming up. I'm having some trouble on a minor plot point. But it DOES have an ending! You're promised an ending no matter what! 


	4. Four

(disclaimer in first part)  
Author's Note: Many thanks to Khaki, who helped with the sticky parts. And to Megan, who has probably read parts of this fic two dozen times by now.  
  
  
  
A Harley that screamed 'big bad and ugly' roared up to the stone house, and Mystique went out to meet it.  
  
"Mystique."  
  
"Sabretooth," she replied as dispassionately. Definitely no love lost there. They might be associates, but they would never be friends. The same went for Toynbee. Many times she'd wondered if that was how the X-Men had bested them over the years, using that tie of friendship that seemed like such a weakness.  
  
The three of them were careful to stay apart, knowing that Xavier kept watch on them. On occasion, however, one or the other would stop by and check up. They hadn't all three been within a thousand miles of each other since Liberty Island.  
  
*Damn the place*, she thought in loathing. *None of this would've happened if that night had ended differently.*  
  
Sabretooth followed her to Magneto's room. He was doing badly today, and she'd given him tranquilizers to get him to sleep.  
  
"Sorry you can't talk to him," she said.   
  
The huge man shrugged. "Better that way. Most of what he says is nonsense nowadays." But his stance as he knelt by the bed and took the old man's hand was respectful. Sabretooth was outwardly scornful, but he was as loyal as Mystique herself. And why shouldn't they be? Hadn't Erik taken them each of them in during their time of greatest need? Exactly as Xavier did with the brats. Their techniques were more similar than either noticed. What a world they could create, if only the other man would be persuaded!  
  
She sighed with regret. Those days were over. Now they were just trying to keep out of the public eye, forced to flee whenever some goody-goody got wind of a hideout and phoned the police. And Magneto, the strategist, the planner, the idealist, the true and undisputed master . . . he was nothing more than a crazy old man bent on vengeance.   
  
Glancing down the hall, she could see the shamaness floating around. As far as Mystique knew, the woman did nothing but float and meditate all day. Just watching her made a person itch to find some useful task.  
  
Sabretooth was watching her as well, a plan taking shape in his black eyes. Mystique was trying to decide if she would agree or not when he spoke.  
  
"Let's get rid of the stranger now, while he sleeps," Sabretooth growled.  
  
"He'll be furious when he wakes," she said.  
  
"If he's in a sane mood at all," he countered.  
  
Truth be told, she was sick of the foreign presence in the house. She could handle Magneto on her own, and for so long it had been just the four of them that any outsider just plain got on her nerves. Especially one as weird as the shamaness, who refused to even tell them her name (she'd told Magneto, but it was something different every time Mystique asked him).  
  
So she strode over to the woman and snapped, "Wake up."  
  
Gray eyes opened slowly. "What do you wish?" Her voice sounded like bones rattling; it made Mystique shiver.   
  
"We've decided to end the spell. Release the girl and leave this house."  
  
"There is the issue of payment."  
  
Mystique snorted. "I'm not paying you shit, old woman. Get out!" Sabretooth stepped behind her and bared his teeth. He was always good for threats, at any rate.  
  
For a moment the shamaness merely stared at them. Mystique felt a chill wash over her body, but she did not look away.  
  
Finally the old woman spoke. "The spell is dissolved. But I will not forget." And she disappeared.  
  
Sabretooth snorted. "Old bitch don't scare anyone."  
  
Mystique agreed. Never mind the uneasiness she felt.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Jean was in class when it happened. The faint buzz that was Rogue's mental process suddenly jolted as though it had been given an electric shock. Papers falling from her hands, she excused herself from the puzzled summer school students and bolted out of the room.  
  
Professor? I felt--  
  
I know. I'll be down presently.  
  
When she reached the med room, she was treated to the sight of an awake Rogue and a deeply grateful Logan.  
  
"What happened?" she asked.  
  
He shook his head, looked dazed. "Don't know. She just sort of convulsed, moaned a little, and opened her eyes."  
  
Those eyes focused on Jean now. "Hey," she managed to get out. "I can't move. Why can't I move?"  
  
"You've been unconscious for nearly two weeks," she said softly. The fingers clasped in Logan's twitched briefly. "It'll take time for you to recover."  
  
"Well, look who's awake," Hank remarked cheerfully as he slipped through the door, the Professor behind him. He began to check her vitals, which Jean had been too dumbfounded to do. She let him take over and watched Logan. The other three might as well have been vapor for all the notice he took of them. As he stroked the back of her hand with one finger, Jean could feel the joy radiating from him -- coupled with love, it was the purest emotion she'd ever sensed. She almost expected him to start purring.  
  
Rogue was confused and disoriented, upset that her muscles would not obey her commands. But her fever had gone down considerably, to just over a hundred. She didn't need to cough, vomit, or otherwise exhibit the symptoms they'd grown so used to.  
  
"We still don't know who did this?" Logan remarked, never taking his eyes off the girl.  
  
"No," Xavier said. He wheeled to her other side and smiled at her, just about eye-level. "Welcome back, Rogue. We've missed you."  
  
She felt his familiar kind presence and smiled in return. "I didn't like being away."  
  
"May I . . .?" He raised his hands to either side of her head.  
  
"Sure. I don't remember anything, but you can try."  
  
The contact lasted only a few moments. He shook his head. "No, I didn't learn anything."  
  
Logan glared at Xavier, clearly of the opinion that he was bothering her. "Why does it matter, now that she's better?"   
  
Rogue looked up at him. "Maybe I'm not."  
  
"We still have tests to run," Hank interjected, "but your temperature has cooled and there are no outward signs of infection." Logan frowned. She was terribly pale, eyes dark and bruised in a tired face, and weighed ninety pounds if she was an ounce. Her recovery would be long even if the illness was over.  
  
*But I'll be here*, he told himself, vowing to share the words with her when there weren't so many spectators. *I'll be here to help every second of every hour of every day. *  
  
*And so will Jeannie, and Hank, and 'Ro, and Chuck, and old Scooter.* He thought suddenly, with a note of surprise, that she had a devoted family despite the lack of blood. Maybe one of these days he'd thank them for taking care of her while he was off chasing the past in Canada.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
As he'd predicted, it took time for Rogue to recuperate. Several weeks of vigorous physical therapy left her able to take a few halting steps around the room, Logan hovering by her side, prepared to catch her. She was moved upstairs, to her delight -- she'd inherited a dislike of hospital conditions from Logan. Keeping food down was something of a struggle, but one that improved by the day.  
  
There was one mark of the illness that she wished very much to keep: her ability to touch. For weeks she held her breath whenever someone touched her, but still nothing seemed to change. She'd been conscious for a month when her mutation began to sluggishly return.  
  
Dozing lightly with Logan's hand covering hers, she felt the dreaded pull and woke up, yanking her hands away.  
  
Logan took a deep breath, fighting dizziness. It had been open for only a second, but the connection was as powerful as ever. Rogue turned her face to the side and he watched her shoulders lift in the beginning of a sob.  
  
Desperately he tried to get her to look at him. Gloves -- but he hadn't used them in so long, he didn't have them here. "Marie," he pleaded, "come on, darlin', don't cry. Let's think about this." He sent a silent message to Jean.  
  
"What's to think about?" she said darkly. "I should've known. Just being sick isn't enough to make me stop."  
  
"Stop what?" He wanted to keep her talking, keep her from shutting him out. One more hurt added to so many others might be the last.  
  
"Being who -- being *what* I am. A mutant. A *freak*."  
  
He hadn't heard that acid self-loathing in her voice for a long time. "Don't be ridiculous," he said. "You're no different from me or anyone else here." She didn't respond, and there were no tears to thicken her speech. He didn't know if that was a good sign or bad.  
  
Jean arrived then and his eyes turned to her, 'help' written in them with hazel letters.  
  
"Rogue," she said with all the authority of a woman who'd spent years in medical school and hours in Senate committees. The girl reluctantly turned her head. "When did your mutation kick in?"  
  
"A few minutes ago," she whispered, still not looking at Logan. Jean felt panic and anger boil in him -- not at Rogue, but at the situation. She didn't have to read his thoughts to know them: hadn't she been through enough already? What god or force hated her so much that they persisted in making her life miserable?  
  
But they could get through this with logic. Jean was nothing if not thoroughly logical. "And how long had you been touching?"  
  
Logan stared at her, understanding immediately.   
  
"I don't know," Rogue muttered sullenly. "A while." As the words left her lips, she realized what Jean was getting at.  
  
"Delayed reaction," the redhead said. "I don't know if it's permanent, but there's good reason to think it might be. Now do it again," she ordered.  
  
Logan reached for her hand and she pulled back in fear, seeing the hurt look on his face but unable to stop herself.  
  
"Trust me," said Jean. "At the very least, we know it won't kill him."  
  
A grudging smile, remembering earlier times. She let him take her hand and when the connection didn't take effect at once, she relaxed at bit. Rogue closed her eyes and concentrated on the feel of his skin on hers: rough, warm. Logan. Home. She traced the delicate pattern of his adamantium-laced bones, his tendons, the knobby bone at the base of his wrist. If this went away, she wanted to have his touch committed to memory.  
  
It didn't go away. For several weeks they conducted similar tests with different people. Logan could touch her for three hours with no effect; others, lacking a healing ability, lasted a half hour less. It slowly decreased from three to two to one, filling her with despair. At approximately thirty-four minutes, it settled.  
  
When they had gone two weeks with no change, Jean declared twenty minutes her limit with the average human or mutant, thirty-four with Logan. It was also found that Rogue could speed it up when she wanted to, absorbing someone in a matter of seconds as she had for the past three years.  
  
Logan was the volunteer and when he woke from the process, he grinned and said, "Thirty-four minutes is plenty of time."  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Dark. It was so dark, so very, very dark.  
  
And cold. Why was it cold? Why didn't Mother come with blankets and hot tea? He didn't like being cold.  
  
Please, please, make the cold go away. Make it go away.  
  
He heard drumbeats. He was frightened and forgot about the cold. It didn't matter that it was cold. *They* were coming.  
  
She kept a constant watch over him now. Ever rarer were the moments he recognized her or seemed to know where he was. It might have been explained by his insanity, but he was also physically ill. His temperature, last time he'd been calm enough for her to check, was 102.   
  
She touched the metal of the lamp, saddened on a deep primal level. Such power as Erik's was never meant to be stolen by fools who had no idea what they were do. Of what they were depriving the world.   
  
He moaned in his sleep and Mystique went to get another blanket. She'd made the decision. Much as she hated to do it -- and she had perhaps hated nothing in her life as she would hate this task -- it was time.  
  
She picked up the phone.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
"'"When I wrote the following pages, or rather the bulk of them, I lived alone, in the woods, a mile from any neighbor in a house that I had built myself, on the shore of Walden Pond in Concord Massachussetts, and earned my living by the labor of . . .' -- Marie, what *is* this?"  
  
"It was on the suggested reading list. Keep going." He growled softly but continued.  
  
Rogue yawned and stretched her toes. She and Logan were lounging on a bench in the courtyard, her head in his lap. Closing her eyes, she felt the sun slowly warm them and smiled. Sunlight was something she'd missed dearly. It was depressing to know that in early September, it was already beginning to lose the strength of its rays.  
  
It would be a hard winter for her. Even now she required long sleeves and pants while everyone else was still in shorts. *I can finally wear skimpy clothing and yet I **can't**,* she thought with cheerful irony.  
  
Logan was the exception to the mansion's warm weather rule. He always wore jeans, khakis if the professor had some important visitor to impress, and a t-shirt. Both items fit like skin, providing her with a satisfying view.  
  
So far it was just a view. She'd taken on the role of pursuer, Logan refusing most of her advances. *'You're not well enough,'* she chanted silently. *'You're still tired all the time. You still need to put on weight. Your muscles are still recovering. You can barely walk across the lawn.'*  
  
Oh, she knew he was right, but badgering him was fun. The man had probably never turned down sex in his life.  
  
Rogue shook herself mentally and concentrated on Logan's voice again.  
  
"--and the big bad wolf said, 'I'll huff and I'll puff and--"  
  
She thwapped his knee. "That's not Thoreau!"  
  
"Thoreau is a pansy," he replied gravely. "You weren't paying attention anyway."  
  
"Was too." She turned on her side, cheek pressed against soft denim, and watched some kids playing soccer. He stroked her hair and after a moment spoke again.  
  
"You aren't even starting till the spring semester."  
  
She caught his hand and held it. "I know. I just wanted to get a head start, and I get tired when I read it myself." She made her tone purposefully mournful and thought gleefully, *Here comes some sugar.* Sure enough, he pulled her gently up until she was close enough to kiss and then did so thoroughly. Pleased, Rogue stretched up to meet his lips, enjoying the kiss for a little while before letting her hand wander up his thigh.  
  
As she'd known he would, Logan released her immediately. "Don't start," he rumbled into her ear.  
  
She snickered and transferred the offending hand to his shoulder. "Prude."  
  
"Tease." Pulling her close again, he rested his chin on the top of her head. Cynic he might be by nature, but even he had to admit it: life was good. Life was very, very good. And he owed it all to the girl in his arms.  
  
Who deserved everything anyone could give her, and since -- contrary to popular opinion -- he could read, he'd grit his teeth and make it through this piece of horse shit.   
  
But before he had a chance to delve back into Walden, he caught a scent that made his skin crawl.  
  
Rogue felt her lover's body tense and straightened up. "What is it, Logan?"  
  
Eyes narrowed, he freed himself from her embrace and stood. "Stay here," he ordered, bending down to grasp her hands and look into her face. In this way he caught the sulky, defiant look in her eyes. *No fighting with me today, baby. Gotta keep you safe.*  
  
"I'm serious, Marie," he said more softly, cupping her cheek in one warm hand.  
  
She sighed, knowing he was right. "Fine."  
  
Logan stalked off. Old habits died hard; the idea of mentally contacting Xavier didn't even occur to him. Rogue, on the other hand, squeezed her eyes shut and thought as hard as she could: Professor!  
  
His voice in her head sounded pained. A little loud.  
  
Sorry. There's a --  
  
An intruder, I know. She's here under my sanctions . . . for the time being. Will you go with Logan to make sure he does nothing rash?  
  
Sure. Assigned a duty, Rogue felt much better. She got up -- still a little slow -- and followed Logan's path.  
  
  
  
Additional Note: I'd like to apologize for how slowly this fic is going. I know I don't exactly churn 'em out, and I really appreciate those of you who've stuck with me :)  



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